Babbit eBook

Babbitt sniffed the earth, chuckled at the hysteric
robins as he would have chuckled at kittens or at
a comic movie. He was, to the eye, the perfect
office-going executive—­a well-fed man in
a correct brown soft hat and frameless spectacles,
smoking a large cigar, driving a good motor along
a semi-suburban parkway. But in him was some genius
of authentic love for his neighborhood, his city,
his clan. The winter was over; the time was come
for the building, the visible growth, which to him
was glory. He lost his dawn depression; he was
ruddily cheerful when he stopped on Smith Street to
leave the brown trousers, and to have the gasoline-tank
filled.

The familiarity of the rite fortified him: the
sight of the tall red iron gasoline-pump, the hollow-tile
and terra-cotta garage, the window full of the most
agreeable accessories—­shiny casings, spark-plugs
with immaculate porcelain jackets tire-chains of gold
and silver. He was flattered by the friendliness
with which Sylvester Moon, dirtiest and most skilled
of motor mechanics, came out to serve him. “Mornin’,
Mr. Babbitt!” said Moon, and Babbitt felt himself
a person of importance, one whose name even busy garagemen
remembered—­not one of these cheap-sports
flying around in flivvers. He admired the ingenuity
of the automatic dial, clicking off gallon by gallon;
admired the smartness of the sign: “A fill
in time saves getting stuck—­gas to-day 31
cents”; admired the rhythmic gurgle of the gasoline
as it flowed into the tank, and the mechanical regularity
with which Moon turned the handle.

“How much we takin’ to-day?” asked
Moon, in a manner which combined the independence
of the great specialist, the friendliness of a familiar
gossip, and respect for a man of weight in the community,
like George F. Babbitt.

“Fill ’er up.”

“Who you rootin’ for for Republican candidate,
Mr. Babbitt?”

“It’s too early to make any predictions
yet. After all, there’s still a good month
and two weeks—­no, three weeks—­must
be almost three weeks—­well, there’s
more than six weeks in all before the Republican convention,
and I feel a fellow ought to keep an open mind and
give all the candidates a show—­look ’em
all over and size ’em up, and then decide carefully.”

“That’s a fact, Mr. Babbitt.”

“But I’ll tell you—­and my stand
on this is just the same as it was four years ago,
and eight years ago, and it’ll be my stand four
years from now—­yes, and eight years from
now! What I tell everybody, and it can’t
be too generally understood, is that what we need first,
last, and all the time is a good, sound business administration!”

“By golly, that’s right!”

“How do those front tires look to you?”

“Fine! Fine! Wouldn’t be much
work for garages if everybody looked after their car
the way you do.”

“Well, I do try and have some sense about it.”
Babbitt paid his bill, said adequately, “Oh,
keep the change,” and drove off in an ecstasy
of honest self-appreciation. It was with the
manner of a Good Samaritan that he shouted at a respectable-looking
man who was waiting for a trolley car, “Have
a lift?” As the man climbed in Babbitt condescended,
“Going clear down-town? Whenever I see a
fellow waiting for a trolley, I always make it a practice
to give him a lift—­unless, of course, he
looks like a bum.”